“Just loved me,” she said dreamily. “Any man would do that.” “Not in the same way.” “As long as my way pleases you I am the most fortunate of men.” “Even if I never wrote another line?” “As if it mattered which way you express yourself, by writing or simply living.” “Such love is enervating. Are you not ambitious for me?” “You’ve done enough.” “I am capable of doing much better work.” “You are capable of anything.” “Except of that book on Staffordshire Pottery.” “That was only to have been a stop-gap. You replaced that with me, darling that you are!” “What will Sir George say when he knows?” “He will say ‘Lucky fellow’ and envy me. Margaret, about how we shall live, and where?” He told her again he was not rich. There was Anne, a certain portion of his income must be put aside for Anne. “You are quite rich enough. For the matter of that I have still my marriage settlement. Father would give me more if we needed it. James had thousands from him.” Then they both coloured, she in shame that this ineffable James had ever called her wife. He, because the idea that any of her comforts or luxuries should emanate from her father or from any one but himself was repellent to him. He would have talked ways and means, considered the advantages of house or flat, spoken of furniture, but that at first she was wayward and said it was unlucky to “count chickens before they were boiled, or was it a watched pot?” She would only banter and say things that were without meaning or for which he could not find the meaning. Presumably, however, she allowed him to lead her back to the subject. “I have in my mind sometimes a little old house in Westminster, built in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, with panelled walls and uneven floors. And hunting for furniture in old curiosity shops. It mustn’t be earlier than the eighteenth century, by the way. Not too early in that; or my Staffordshire won’t look well. In the living-room with the eighteenth-century chintz I see all little rosebuds and green leaves. A few colour prints on the walls.” Gabriel had spoken of his collection of old prints. He said he would set about looking for the house at once. He told her there were a few such still standing, they were snapped up so eagerly. Soon, quite excitedly they were both planning, talking of old oak, James I. silver, William and Mary walnut. Of all their happy hours this I think was the happiest they ever spent. Their tastes were so congenial, Gabriel’s knowledge so far beyond her own; the home they would build so essentially suited to them. There Margaret would write and play, hold something of a salon. He would see that all her surroundings were appropriate, dignified, congenial. She would be the centre of an ascending chorus of admiration. He would, as it were, conduct the band. With adoring eyes he would watch her effects, temper this or straighten that, setting the stage and noting the audience; all for her glorification.